“All my favorite clothes are tapping out on me this year. The jeans with the little crotch holes had a blowout.”
“You need some indestructible pants. Like made of sail canvas with guitar-string-sewn seams. I could make you some.”
So, I wrote another flash fiction, this one 1,000 words. Also not romance.
It’s all Chuck Wendig‘s fault.
The Revolt of Dorothy
Rubber-soled shoes squeaked outside of my room and I stuffed the knife under my pillow, flopping backward and letting my mouth hang open slightly. I focused on my breathing—in and out, slowly, carefully—as the door opened. From somewhere down the hall came a pitiable moan. There was a pause—in, out, slowly, carefully, breathe Dorothy—and then the hated reek reek reek of the rubber-soled shoes moved purposely toward my bed.
“Dorothy, dear. Open your eyes. It’s time for your medicine.”
The sweet sounding words came with a pinch to the sensitive skin on the inside of my upper arm, swift and vicious as a wasp sting.
“You know what’s weird? I think the universe doesn’t want me to wear jeggings.”
Things husbands and wives really talk about. #ConversationswithZack
So, I haven’t been writing so much lately. I’ve gotten stuck on the edits for Peace, Love and Murder, and the creative gears in my brain have been all gunked up with work stuff and school stuff and stuff stuff, but I caught a Wendig post on Friday–a flash fiction challenge.
Sure. Like I’ve got time to write a short story, Chuck. I haven’t done that since high school.
Except, wait, I accepted the challenge and turned a pretty cool story out of it. (FYI, there’s a couple swears and some creepy stuff, if you’re not into that. This ain’t a romance, folks.)
The cold bit at Damon’s nose as soon as he opened the door, and he tugged his scarf up. The wool itched and smelled like peanut butter and cigarette smoke.
“Come on, Curtis.”
Damon jerked his little brother’s arm and Curtis yelped. “Tee, Damon hurt my arm!”
“Gone, now. Get to school.” The volume went up louder on the TV, and a racking cough echoed out from the living room. “You lettin’ the cold air in!”
Damon automatically steered Curtis around the loose board three steps down. He was a little shit, but that didn’t mean Damon wanted to see him trip down the rickety staircase of their second-story apartment.
The wind picked up as they trudged down the sidewalk, bringing with it a crumpled McDonald’s bag, a couple of dead leaves and a condom wrapper that gleefully cartwheeled past them.
I passed my first exam! *fist bump*
Oh, wait. You have no idea what I’m talking about. Did I forget to post anything for the past six months? Riiiighhht… sorry about that.
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